The Art of the Dress
by AlphaMonkey
Summary: It's the grandest -gallopingest?- gala the Strip has ever seen. Someone's gotta sew all those beautiful, beautiful dresses. Veronica! Break out the needle and thread, woman!
1. Chapter 1

"NO. No, no, no, no, NO."

Two bullets to the brain: a minor inconvenience.

Hordes of bandits, raiders, and other assorted Wasteland lowlifes: trivial.

The mighty Caesar's Legion – scourge of the Mojave Wasteland, feared by all: a speedbump along the road to victory.

A frilly, powder-blue evening gown: the gravest threat she'd ever faced – and one she wasn't sure she had the strength to overcome.

"Do not want. Do. Not. Want."

Nearby, draped lazily across a plush couch in the Lucky 38 Casino's Presidential Suite was the foul-tempered and foul-mouthed Rose of Sharon Cassidy. She snickered and took a sip from the bottle of whiskey which seemed to have been permanently grafted to her hand. "Aw, quit being such a baby."

"You do realize you'll need to wear a dress, too, right?"

"Oh, like hell I will!"

Standing in the doorway watching the proceedings was a tall, lanky man with blond hair that had been bleached even lighter by the sun. He wore an old pair of eyeglasses that perpetually slipped down his nose and a weathered lab coat that was more gray than white these days. He apparently found Cass' burgeoning panic amusing, because the corner of his mouth was quirked upwards into a tiny smirk. "It's a diplomatic function. That means formal attire. For everyone. Last I checked, you would be included under the catch-all term 'everyone.'"

Angry, bloodshot eyes glared at him from underneath the brim of Cass' straw hat. "Not happening. No way, no how." Her voice had descended into a raspy growl, like a Nightstalker preparing to lunge.

"Now who's being a baby?"

She turned, her expression instantly softening – becoming almost pleading. "Ash, you can't do this to me, girl. I'll die in one of them things. Look at these. What ARE these?"

"Ruffles." The doc sounded completely unperturbed. She was struck with the sudden urge to see if a fist to the jaw would damage his calm some.

" 'Ruffles.' What the flyin'-sheepdog-fuck is a 'ruffle,' Gannon? Who comes up with this shit? It looks like a Brahmin's puckered asshole!"

"Annnnnnd… that's an image I'm not going to be getting out of my head for a long, long time. Lovely."

Cass rolled her eyes. "Well, I am _awful_ sorry to have offended your delicate sensibilities, Mr. Fussybritches, but I am not going to be stuffing myself into anything that looks like the wrinkly part of a ghoul's hindquarters."

"And on that note, who votes to skip breakfast?" Arcade glanced about the room and found several hands raised.

Behind him, though, Raul continued toiling at one of the workbenches, fiddling with a handful of different bits of broken machinery. "I could eat," he muttered, distractedly.

Arcade snorted. "Sorry, Raul, you're outvoted. Motion passes." He turned back to Cass. "It's only fair. If Ashleigh has to wear a dress, so do you."

"I'm still hoping nuclear winter will descend on the Mojave and I can get out of this banquet thing. I mean, take on an army of homicidal robots? I can do that. Take on an army of homicidal pseudo-Romans? I can do _that._ Entertain a bunch of visiting dignitaries with delightful anecdotes while sipping tea and picking at plates of hors d'oeuvres? Shoot me in the head. Use three bullets this time. Maybe it'll take."

"But what about the _dresses?_"

"And that's another thing. Veronica, you are way too excited about this."

"I haven't had a chance to break out my sewing kit in forever!"

Ashleigh thumped her forehead against the heel of her palm. "You have a sewing kit? What am I saying? Of course you have a sewing kit."


	2. Chapter 2

"OW!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did my pin get in the way of your ass?"

"Veronica!"

The scribe looked up from her work and rolled her eyes at the tall, solidly built blonde. "Look, if you'd just stop flailing for a second, I could do this without stabbing you!"

Ashleigh fidgeted, shrugging her shoulders, wriggling her hips, causing the powder-blue fabric of her dress to bunch up and pucker in all the wrong places, and generally making it impossible for Veronica to work. "But… ennnnnnnnnhhh, it's too tight!" She hooked an arm around, trying to reach an itch on her back, and came a literal thread away from bursting a seam.

Veronica sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Good. Gracious. Your whining. It hurts."

Ashleigh looked down her nose at her, her eyes narrowing. She sniffed haughtily. "Whining? I am not _whining._ I am _complaining._ Do you want to hear whining?" She took a deep breath, her expression turned ominous, and Veronica felt her stomach turn to ice. "Thiiiiiiis is whiiiiiiiining! Oooooooh, the waistline is too tight! It's going to chafe. Can't you loosen it? Ohhhhh, it hurts, and the fabric's **so** itchy! Why didn't you wash it first? It's going to leave a rash! And your pincushion's getting heavy! Why do I have to hold it?" She stomped her feet.

It was hard to talk through a clenched jaw and with her fingers in her ears, but Veronica managed. "Well played, Madam. Well played."

The blonde smirked.

Veronica returned the favor. She brandished a tiny, sharpened piece of aluminum between her fingers. It glinted cruelly in the light. "But remember, I still have the pins."

"OW!"


	3. Chapter 3

Ashleigh had threatened violence if forced to stand there and be poked and prodded for one second longer. Veronica had relented, and banished her to the couch where the blonde now sat (carefully – since she had about a million pins holding her dress in place.)

Meanwhile, it was Cass' turn to face her doom. She took a swig from her bottle of whiskey and fantasized about having her arms broken, her legs broken, then being hung upside down on a Legion cross. She sighed happily at the imagery. "Ronnie?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you hummin'?"

"I'm not humming."

"You were so hummin'."

"Was not."

"There is music coming from your lips. Ergo, humming."

"It's nothing, don't worry about it. Now hold still so I can…" Veronica trailed off, temporarily needing her mouth for other purposes. She clamped down on the end of a needle with her lips even as her fingers worked furiously to pin two pieces of fabric together without stabbing the skin underneath.

"Ash, I haven't gone cracked in the noggin, right? You hear it, too?"

"Yard by yard, fussing on the details.  
>Jewel neckline. Don't you know a stitch in time saves nine?<br>Make her something perfect to inspire,  
>Even though she hates formal attire,"<p>

The blonde and the redhead traded looks. "She's **singing**." Cass mouthed.

"I **know.**" Ashleigh mouthed back, equally stunned.

"Got to mind those intimate details,  
>Even though she's more concerned with sales.<br>I'm stitching Cass' dress…"

Cass shivered. "Ronnie, I'm not afraid to tell you, this is starting to get weird."

"I'm just taking some measurements."

"No, five minutes ago you were just taking measurements. Now you're singing showtunes, and… well… I'm your friend, so I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but… you've been getting handsy, and it's starting to get a mite awkward."

"Hey, everything's been above the belt."

"Sugar, we both know there's still plenty of fun to be had north of the belt," Cass replied with a snort.

Veronica cocked her head to the side, a single eyebrow raised inquisitively. "Well, that's a… meaningful statement if I've ever heard one," she said noncommittally.

Cass shrugged easily, a small, faint smile tugging at her lips. "I'm sure you know how it is. You're out there sometimes, all by yerself… seems like years without seeing anyone else. And then you finally get somewhere that passes for civilization, you get a good, solid drink… or maybe four or five in you, and all you want's some company, right? Can't be the only one who's felt that way from time to time…"

Ashleigh sat up straighter in her seat.

"Why, Cass. You wouldn't be coming on to me, would you?" Veronica said with a flirty little snicker and a coy flutter of eyelashes.

The redhead shrugged again, a smooth, liquid gesture that made not just her shoulders roll, but sent a hip playfully jutting out to one side. "An' iff'n I were, what would you think of that?"

"What would I think?" Veronica's voice dropped in pitch, her words sounding far huskier… fuller than they normally did. "You mean about a cute, sassy little redhead with a fondness for guns, booze and profanity, making advances towards me? Huh." She rose to her full height which brought her eye to eye with Cass and then tilted her chin upwards in a teasingly haughty little gesture. "I'd have to say, I might be intrigued."

Cass grinned, reaching out and wrapping an arm possessively around Veronica's waist. The scribe offered up no resistance, yielding like stalks of maize swaying in a stiff breeze. "Oh, would you now?"

"Safe bet." Veronica leaned in, her lips parting gently and her eyes closing. Cass matched her move for move. There were just a handful of inches between them, now… two… one…

Cass broke away, swearing up a blue streak. Her cheeks were bright red, but the flush didn't end there. The color stretched all the way down to her sternum. "Damn it! God-fuckin'-damnit!"

"Yessssss! Winner and still champion!" Veronica threw both arms up over her head.

"Why do I **always** lose at Gay Chicken?"

Veronica was making crowd noises. She interrupted herself for a moment. "I'm gonna let you think that one over for a minute."


	4. Chapter 4

The last time Cass could remember being this nervous, she and Ashleigh were staring down a Legion hit squad – at least a dozen strong. In a way, though, this was worse. At least with the Legion, she knew where she stood; she knew how to deal with them. She was in her element: shoot, stab, punch… maybe throw in some purloined high-yield military-grade explosives for extra flavor. But this… she didn't have the slightest clue where to even start with this.

"Salad fork? Soup spoon… which do I…" She stared helplessly at the enormous spread laid out in front of her, at all the shiny silver utensils and the delicate china – three kinds of forks, three kinds of spoons, big plates, little plates, miniature saucers, tiny cups with even tinier handles, crystal decanters spaced out across the table like a field of sparkly landmines. "Where do- what- I…" She sighed and crumpled up the cloth napkin in her lap, dumping it on the empty plate in front of her. "Ah, fuck it. I'm not hungry, anyway."

She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up, flirting with the idea of just making a mad dash for the door, and disappearing forever amidst the bright lights and neon haze of the Strip. But she couldn't do that. This crazy bunch of dysfunctional misanthropes were her friends – her family – and she couldn't cut and run on them now – not even against odds like these.

Instead, she made her way over to the bar – her home away from home. She bellied up to the finely polished wood, almost as if drawing strength from the smell of wood varnish and liquor that rolled together under her nose. She eyed the bartender: aging, but dapper with his salt and pepper hair, impeccably groomed mustache and neatly pressed tuxedo. She wasn't even sure how people even managed to find those kinds of clothes, and in such good shape, but considering the miracles Veronica had worked with her dress (as awfully constricting as it was in all the wrong places,) she'd stopped being surprised by such things. "You, sir," she said, her hand halfway up to her forehead to tip a hat that wasn't there – she halted the gesture midstream, feeling awkward and suddenly even more out of place than she already did. "You, sir," she began again, "are going to be my savior this evenin'. Whiskey."

"Whiskey it is," he said, already reaching for a bottle and shotglass behind him. He poured smoothly, with the measured and even touch of someone who was an old hand at serving drinks, then nudged the shot over to her with a small smile.

"What is **this?** Do I look like some kind of sissy who can't hold her liquor?" She snorted, picked up the shotglass and knocked the booze back with practiced ease. She scoffed, flicked the glass back across the bar with a disdainful, two-fingered stroke and then flounced over to a nearby table. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. You usin' this? Didn't think so." She stole an empty wine goblet from right under another dinner guest's nose and came back with it, placing it proudly atop the counter. "That's better. Now fill 'er up."


	5. Chapter 5

It all started innocently enough.

At least as these things go.

Cass was well into her second goblet of whiskey when the bartender decided to say something. "I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that alcohol isn't a proper substitute for real food."

Her vision was just starting to go a little blurry. As far as she was concerned, as long as she could still see the glass in her hand, as long as she could still _see_ her hand, she could keep going. "Don't you three worry about me, none. I'm a big girl, I can handle it." She waved a hand at him, the muscles in her arm suddenly going slack about midway through the gesture, causing her wrist to slam painfully into the countertop. She barely noticed. "Though… I guess you're right, I am kinda famished."

Nearby, a waiter was still carting around a tray of appetizers. She flailed at him, trying to seize him by the lapels of his suit jacket-

And missed. Horribly.

It didn't help that she'd been making the attempt with the hand holding a glass full of booze. Amber liquid spilled everywhere. The glass shattered on the floor, shards flying in all directions like shrapnel from a detonating grenade. Partygoers shrieked at the noise, scrambling backwards away from the commotion, and in doing so, only making things worse.

A woman in a ridiculously over-elaborate gown tripped over her own skirts and toppled into her date, who spilled his wine onto another gentlemen, who in turn sent his plate of little cocktail sausages and dipping sauce flying through the air to land on some poor woman's chest. She cried bloody murder, flailed her arms, skittered backwards, and stumbled into the table holding the centerpiece of the room's décor: a beautifully chiseled ice sculpture at least eight feet tall and fountaining ruby-red fruit punch. The statue, the product of weeks of painstaking work by one Sheldon Weintraub, a.k.a. Michael Angelo, started to careen over to its side.

The NCR's primary diplomat in the area was a man named Dennis Crocker: a gifted statesman and orator, but nothing he'd seen in all his years of service to the New California Republic had prepared him for the sight of several hundred pounds of carved ice coming down straight onto his head. He balked, his eyes open wide as the sculpture loomed ponderously over him.

"I got this!" Ashleigh dove towards the Ambassador, shoving him out of the way. It was a brusque maneuver, but it likely saved his life, and she hunched down, catching the massive chunk of ice across her shoulders. She grinned triumphantly for about a second before she realized she may just have bitten off more than she could chew. The weight of the thing dragged her down, proving to be much, much more than she'd anticipated, and her knees started to buckle. She overbalanced, heaving to one side, then overcorrected and pitched to the other side instead. "WHOOOOOOOOOA!"

Veronica could only watch in horror as fruit punch continued to spray from the statue's mouth, connected as it still was to the pump system that serviced it. "We've got to help her!" she cried out to the blonde woman she'd been chatting up the entire evening.

The blonde had been interesting enough company. She was at least a decade Veronica's senior, maybe more, with a sharp, angular face and piercing eyes that never missed a trick. She walked with a slight limp, but was otherwise in extraordinary shape for a woman her age, though that wasn't what Veronica found herself most attracted to. It was the woman's drive and ambition, and most of all her whip-smarts. Sure, she was a little… stiff, but that was something they could work on.

Whatever hopes and dreams Veronica might've had for romance, though, were quickly dashed when the blonde quickly grabbed her by the shoulders and used her as a human shield to protect herself from the spray of pressurized fruit-juice.

Veronica's normally easy-going demeanor vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by a furious tic that pulled at her left cheek. "My **dress.** You **ruined** my dress! You **BITCH!**"

"Hey, now wait just a second-"

"Oh, what's the matter?" The scribe's voice bordered on the hysterical as she closed the distance between herself and the other woman step by inexorable step. Her fists were clenched at her sides, sticky fruit juice had soaked through the fabric of her gown, causing it to cling to the modest curves of her slender frame. Her hair, normally severely tamed even under the rough hood she normally wore, had gone wild, but her eyes were even worse. There was a twisted bent to them – of the last bits of sanity making their escape. "Afraid to get dirty?"

The blonde put her hands up to defend herself, but Veronica was faster, and suddenly the two of them were on the floor. Veronica may have been shorter and slighter, but she was younger, and motivated by a rage so intense it more than made up for a lack of main strength. She straddled the other woman's hips, pinned her shoulders to the ground, drew her fist back-

But before she could loose the killing blow, a hand seized her wrist. The grip was firm without being rough. Veronica whirled, murder in her eyes, but when she saw who was standing behind her, her jaw dropped open. "King? Er… your majesty?"

The King himself, ruler of Freeside, smiled and turned her loose. "As much as I like a good tussle, especially a tussle between two such good looking dames, I'm starting to think it might be a good time to hightail it out of here. I got word some of my fellas ran into some trouble."

Though her dress was ripped and covered in fruit juice, Veronica got her feet back under her with remarkable grace and aplomb, leaving the blonde still coughing and struggling for breath underneath her. "What kind of trouble?"

Just then, the doors to the hall burst open, and several young men with slicked-back hair and wearing leather jackets over T-shirts and blue jeans rushed in, fleeing for their lives. Arcade appeared in the doorway behind them, somehow managing to fill the entire entrance with his lanky frame. "YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE ME!"

Veronica stammered helplessly. "I… oh… erm… oh…"

The King squeezed her wrist, gently trying to draw her attention back to where it needed to be. "Run," he said in a firm whisper.

They ran.


	6. Chapter 6

Halfway through their mad dash out of the Ultra-Luxe, they were joined by the rest of their group. Ashleigh came barreling in from their left, a screaming mob of party guests soaked in fruit punch chasing after her intent on bloody vengeance. She slammed a set of double-doors closed to block off pursuit, then picked up a gorgeous chaise longue and dumped it in front of the doors as an impromptu barricade.

A few moments later, Cass drunkenly stumbled in from their right, reeking of alcohol and with half of her dress' ruffles torn away. She'd somehow managed to secure herself a bottle of whiskey half as tall as her forearm was long and was swigging from it even as she ran. Most of the liquor made its way down the front of her chest instead of down the inside of her throat, but she didn't seem to care. A few seconds after _that,_ Arcade fell in at the back of the formation, looking sheepish. He cleared his throat. "Eh, ahem. Sorry about that."

No one said anything.

He continued, anyway. "Too bad about your date, Veronica. Things seemed to be going so well between you and Colonel Moore."

Veronica stopped dead in her tracks and Cass ran right into her back. The redhead fell straight to the ground, swearing up a blue streak and rubbing her tailbone.

The King once again yanked on her arm to spur her into running. "What." She said over her shoulder.

"You mean, you didn't know?"

"_That's_ who that was? C.O. of NCR forces stationed at Hoover Dam? Hates the Brotherhood? _That_ Moore?"

Ashleigh chimed in from the edges of the conversation. "Yeah, I noticed you two getting chummy. I just figured you knew who she was and were trying to win her over with kindness or something. You know, like tolerate and love the shit out of her or whatever."

"I'm going to kill you two." Veronica stumbled, losing her balance for a moment but recovering almost immediately. She kept charging forward towards the exit.

Arcade tossed a backwards glance over his shoulder. "Veronica, you lost a shoe." He paused. "Hey, you know there's a story about that. How the charming prince finds his princess by tracking her through the slipper she lost?"

Veronica came to a dead halt once again, and once again, Cass ran straight into her back. It was like plowing into a brick wall, and the redhead bounced off, and ended up eating a patch of floor. "Goddamnit, Ronnie! Quit that!"

Veronica ignored her, instead calmly raising the hem of her dress. There, strapped to her right thigh was a compact laser pistol. She leveled it at the wayward shoe and turned it to ash with a single, precisely aimed shot, then kicked off her second slipper and repeated the process.

The rest of the group stared blankly at her for a few moments but then shrugged and kept on running. One hesitated, his eyes flicking between the still-smoking barrel of the pistol and the deadly cruel expression of the woman holding it. "Um…."

"Arcade? **Run**, damn it, or I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a squealing man-child."


	7. Chapter 7

They lost their pursuers by taking a few random turns down some blind alleys in Freeside. Eventually Ashleigh lumbered to a halt, the rest of the group falling in right behind her. She hunched over, her palms on her knees, breathing heavily. "I told you this was going to be a disaster. I told you. I told you all."

"A little less smugness if you please," Veronica said.

"Less smugness? Are you kidding me? I'd be doing my 'I told you so' dance if I had the energy for it. Because… because I TOLD YOU SO. God, I wish Boone were here so he and I could revel in how WE TOLD YOU SO."

Cass grumbled and sipped from the bottle of whiskey she'd managed to shepherd through the entire getaway. "How did he manage to escape going to this thing, anyway?"

Arcade vaguely waved a hand. "Oh, I don't know. He claimed some kind of groin injury. No one was going to ask for details."

"I wonder what he's up to right now?"

"I think he said he'd be at the Wrangler. Let's find out."

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

"Another."

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

Boone pushed down his sunglasses just enough that he could fix the Wrangler's proprietor with a wintry stare. He nudged a saucer covered in yellow cake crumbs and vanilla frosting across the countertop. "**More Fancy Lads.** Extra frosting."

James Garret, one half of the owner/operator team of the Atomic Wrangler, gulped and nodded quietly, hands trembling as he began rummaging through the pantry.

It was then that Ash stumbled through the door, cohorts in tow.

"Well?" He didn't even look up from his snack cakes.

"Yeah. You were right. Worst. Night. Ever."


End file.
